I am always amazed when I listen to other genealogists recounting the most uncanny coincidences that lead them to another piece of their family history puzzle. I have my own such incidents and when they occur, I believe that my efforts are getting a little nudge from my ancestors to ensure that their story is told.
Such was the case when I began to research my paternal line (RINALDI and SERRANI). My father’s parents were born in the region of Le Marche, the province of Pesaro e Urbino (PS), the comunes of Orciano di Pesaro and Barchi. These two villages are lovely, small, walled-towns each situated on a hilltop, 3 kilometers from each other. In fact, from the road at the base of the hills you can look up and see each of them on the horizon. In June 2001 my husband and I decided to extend our trip to Tuscany to explore Le Marche and visit these two comunes. I didn’t have much to go on from family records. I have the naturalization papers of my grandfather and the copies of letters from the priest in Orciano di Pesaro of my grandmother’s baptism and marriage. I had been told there was a distant cousin still living in Orciano di Pesaro but no one had any specific information about the relative. Searching on the Pagina Bianca (white pages) on the internet revealed no one with my surnames.
Jay and I fell in love with Le Marche. Having driven from Tuscany, which is a very popular tourist area, through Umbria, which is becoming a tourist area, it was a pleasure to arrive in Le Marche, which is still “undiscovered†by the tourists…at least from the United States. It is a very different countryside, patchwork with small farms of yellow wheat and green produce. It is also more industrial, dotted with many small factories and businesses, all owned and operated by families. We made the beachside town of Fano our headquarters. We stayed at the Hotel Beaurivage, right on the coast and for the first time saw the Adriatic side of Italy. There were many vacationers there from other parts of Europe and we heard German spoken frequently. On our second morning in Fano we headed out with our map to find Orciano di Pesaro and Barchi.
We arrived in Orciano di Pesaro a little before noon. We drove through the town and it was so quiet…hardly any people out in the streets. We found the historic center and drove through the narrow streets but again, the town felt deserted. Finally we stopped at a bar and asked where we might find the municipio. I was singing praises of gratitude to my Italian professor because I was able to make myself understood with my halting Italian. My first question was always, “Per favore, parla inglese?†but inevitably the answer was “No.†The proprietor of the bar gave me directions to the municipio. I left my husband, Jay, sitting at a small table under a tree with a book and an expresso and headed off. On the way I asked to more people, old, whiskered, cloth-capped men, and finally, I was directed down the street to a large building on the corner. The door was open…the first miracle. I entered into a dark, plain vestibule with some bulletin boards and posters. Going up four steps I found an office door open and a middle-aged woman, Manuela, at a computer. She seriously nodded, “Buon Giorno.†I identified myself and asked her, “Per favore, parla inglese?†She said “No†then she asked me in Italian, what I wanted in Orciano. I attempted to tell her who I was, that my grandmother was born in Orciano di Pesaro and I was looking to find information about her family. I wanted to see the town and, perhaps, visit the graves of my great-grandparents. I told her the family name and asked where I might find the cimitero. I showed her my repeatedly folded genealogy paper with names, dates, locations. She immediately located my great-grandmother, Maria Tredicuddi in her database. It was a cemetery record. She told me that Maria was originally born in the commune of Barchi and gave me her birth and death dates. Then she located my great-grandfather, Giuseppi Serrani. She gave me the gravesite information and showed me a map of how to get there. Then I got brave and asked if there might be information on the birth of my grandmother and uncle who were born there. I gave her the years and she went to a card index and located their records. She could not give me a copy nor could I take a picture, but she did allow me to copy the information. While I copied she went to the phone and called someone. Then she said to me, “Your cousin is coming… she works in the next office.†I kept thinking that she must be confused. How could she know my cousin? But sure enough, in a few minutes a woman about my age entered the office and introduced herself. She was Marta and was married to my cousin’s oldest son… the second miracle. She said, “Come, I will take you to meet my mother-in-law…your grandmother’s first cousin.†We left the municipio and walked past four doors on the main strada and knocked on the door of my cousin. Irma, my grandmother’s first cousin, was a tiny woman. She seemed self-conscious that I had caught her unawares and kept patting her hair in place. I was concerned that my sudden visit had embarrassed her. Marta explained who I was and slowly the confusion left her eyes. She began to repeat the names of my grandmother and her parents. I explained, in halting Italian, how I happened to be in Orciano and she went off to find pictures of the family to show to me. She dug out an old box filled with pictures and began to tell me all about her family. She told me of her brother in the United States and gave me names and addresses. I left her home laden with pictures, information, and Marta who was going to take us to the cimitero where I could see the graves of my great-grandparents. You can imagine the look on my husband’s face when I walked toward him, arm and arm with a strange woman and said, “Jay, I would like you to meet my cousin.â€
We piled into our car and she directed us to the cimitero and took us to the grave which was beautifully kept up by the family. We took her home and when we left we hugged and promised to stay in touch. Then, Jay and I left for Barchi, the village on the next hilltop and the birthplace of my grandfather. Again, this town was tiny and pristine but it appeared to be empty. No one was walking the streets. We stopped at a bar just inside the walls of the village and asked for directions to the municipio. However, it was closed for “il pranzo†lunch. We walked the streets and found a tiny church. We went inside and I wondered if this might have been the church where my grandfather was baptized. As we were leaving, I saw a young boy about 10 years old bouncing a ball in the street. I began to ask him the name of the church. As we were attempting to talk a priest came out of the door and asked if he could help me. Again, in my halting Italian I asked, “Per favore, parla inglese?†The response…â€Mi dispiace, non parla.†So, I began to tell my story. His name was Father Pasquale. He told me the church was the church of Saint Ubaldo but that today it is called the Santissima Resurrezione. When I mentioned my grandfather and the year of his birth, he motioned to me to follow him. So I left Jay standing in the street while I went into the rectory and up some stairs to a small storage room. It was crammed with things…banners, vases, large statues that are carried in the processions on special feast days…and a bookcase with old leather ledgers haphazardly piled on top of each other, smelling of dust, mold and age. He began to look through the books. There was no order to the piles…marriage rosters on top of birth ledgers on top of death records…and no sequencing of years. I thought to myself of all the people in the United States who dream of these books, considering them hidden-away treasures and what they would give to be able to handle them and search through them for an ancestor. I was afraid he may give up and say this is too difficult, taking too much time and I felt so close to finding something special. But he was patient and pulled them out and opened them one by one. He did not have the American sense of urgency…he deliberately opened one book after another. Suddenly he said…â€Ecco.†He had found the year of the birth records. We both began to strain in the dusty light to see the names and there at the bottom of one page was the name of my grandfather…my third miracle. He took the book and we went down to his office where he had a copier machine. He made a copy of the record for me and sent me on my way with his blessing and an Italian two-cheeked hug. The donation I left with him seemed so paltry compared to what he had given to me.
I was two years old when my grandfather died but I have a picture of him holding me. My mother tells me that as his first grandchild, he used to watch me with eyes filled with love. I was 20 years old when my grandmother died and had lived 3,000 miles away from her since I was 13. And yet, this trip has connected my to these two people in a profound way. I am sure that somehow, someway, they were guiding my efforts as I walked their streets and returned to their birthplace.
"Not to know what happened before we were born is to remain perpetually a child. For what is the worth of a human life unless it is woven into the life of our ancestors by the records of history?" Cicero
Click on these links to see pictures of Barchi and Orciano di Pesaro taken by Patricia Edie.